I’m a realist, a pragmatic, and often, a pessimist. I don’t often see the world through rose-colored anything. Bad things have happened to my family and well, you see life differently.
But Christmas is hard for a pessimist. I find myself wanting to reject doubts and embrace the the traditions and the glamour and yes, even the kitsch. It’s irresistible. The holidays are the exception in my world. I plan for gift-giving and decorating all year long. Finally, in October, when the stores change their decorations from Halloween to Christmas, I am not sad to see Thanksgiving neglected. I am thrilled. All of this, the glittering Target aisles and the waltzing songs, tell me that the best time of the year is coming soon.
I like it all. Oh, there’s always the big things that holidays promise and the songs sing about: families, hope, love. But I wonder sometimes if the best things are the smallest. I wonder if these things are the ones that will remind me of themselves throughout the year.
One of the little things I enjoy the most of this season is the making, the creating. This year, December is quieter than most months, with less daily responsibilities. Armed with a to-make list from Pinterest and DIY blogs, Nate and I have colored, stuck decorations to windows, and watched more Christmas specials than I care to admit. But the best part of the day is still when it’s nap time and I can focus on more painstaking projects. I’m working a whole city of snowglobes this week and instead of being annoyed at the detail work of miniatures, I revel in the slowness and quiet. I experiment with different kinds of glue, with snowmen, African animals and Victorian city-dwellers. Life is good.
Another small thing I love about December is Christmas lights. As a kid, I discovered the colorful patterns the tree needles and the lights made against our living room wall at night. It was art that only existed for me because I stayed up later than everyone else. This year I put a string of white lights in our bedroom and it worked so well, I wished I had done it years ago. It may be cold upstairs, but the little twinkle lights add a little imagination and warmth.
Finally, I love bits of song that whirl in my head. Years ago, I watched the movie The Family Stone, where after a holiday of family drama and stress, Luke Wilson and Sarah Jessica Parker’s characters lay in bed staring at a world of snow and Christmas lights. Comfort and joy, they quietly sing. Comfort and joy. That phrase sticks with me now.
Peace often seems ethereal, intangible. There isn’t peace in my heart, nor in the world around me. Comfort, though, is real.We all want that. And in my happiest moments, I do experience joy. I’d love to remember those memories and look forward to more. It’s a very human desire: to crave comfort for the past and the promise of joy for the future. And it’s just a line in a song.
These things are the material showing me hints of the meaningful, the mundane bringing light to the sublime. These things are the beauty of Christmas.